The Outer Church/Scream
"Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold. I will become, have become, a creature unstirred by history, no longer moved by the present, just hungry, blind and at long last filled of mindless wrath." ---- "Middle-class parents are terrified of non-existent child killers; soon we'll have them so terrified they'll gladly allow us to electronically tag '''all' newborn infants. We are engineering sick, obese, passive consumers. Even the video games they obsessively play contain demoralizing subliminals. A weak-willed child is easy to manipulate using product hypnosis. Look at their "clothing", for instance. The new breed are simply mobile hoardings, advertising the multi-national corporations which control their minds. Hear this: When our masters' work is done, every living thing will have the status of a machine. There will be no creativity, only productivity. Instead of love there will be fear and distrust, instead of surrender there will be submission. We will replace contact with isolation, and joy with shame. Hope will cease to exist as a concept. We will cover the earth with steel and with concrete, this planet will be a factory farm producing morons to fuel and maintain the factory engines and feed our masters. There will be an electronic policeman in every head. Your children will be born in chains, live only to serve and die in anguish and ignorance. Look around you, the process is already in its final stages. And you, like everyone else, will take your place on the production line. Maybe we'll let you be labor camp commandants. Sure is amazing what a little taste of power and a shiny uniform can do to the most freedom-loving.' '''Third world children are plentiful. Fossil fuels are scarce. We need to burn something." ---- "Jesus Christ almighty, Henry! Everyone knows the names of Donald Duck's nephews. Domination, submission, obedience, control." ---- Potential diminishes. Reality clenches around us in an inkblack shell. No room to breathe. No feeling. No caring. No hope of change. Vision narrows. Monotonous insect humming begins. Things are stripped of all meaning, all significance, all association but that which is determined by Control. We are crossing to the Other Side, where the Outer Church is. Halle-fucking-lujah. ---- ---- The abscess is bursting. Septic supermatter flooding his brain. Psychic pus erupting through from the infected zones, the fever kingdoms of the outside. Boiling, it narrows the focus of its sensory superstructure to scan the four-dimensional process entity in its midst. It seems him inside-out, from birth to death, leafing through him for a shape to dress in. He glimpses a child's drawing of the devil, come to life. Cthulhu, frothing with chaotic energy. The sepsis selects its forms for manifestation. Ornorthocrasi, Mother Without Boundaries, who nourishes Efememphi, the Angel of Pleasure, and Iocho, Angel of Greed and Nenetophni, Angel of Pain and lastly Blaomen, Angel of Fear. These and their three hundred and sixty abortions: The Brotherhood of the Scourge in Rubber Hoods, eyes and lips stapled shut, dukes of the first trench. A sacrifice. A sacrifice might seal the abscess, he's thinking, as the thoughts scream and tear one another apart. A dreadful crown is set in place, cracking open his head. The horrors multiply with mathematical precision. The imbecile pope on its jewelled commode, voiding shit and gold coins, mumbling idiot phrases, jingles, pointless statistics. A sacrifice. Towering behind him, one of nine corrupt Buddhas -- obese and senile, his brain rotted like a tooth by the sweet, unending bliss of false enlightenment, the Buddha masturbates like a monkey in a cage. Lacerating voices of the scalpel choir. Worm-eaten leatherbound bible spirits. Maimed women in white Marilyn Monroe dresses, with false eyelashes stitched along bare, bleeding forearms. It needs a sacrifice. The only thing he has to give. The banal horror movie host gathers to shrill and gibber. It almost sounds like words, if you listen hard enough. One word. Himself.